


Home Has a Certain Smell

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Fluff, Gen, Headaches and Migraines, John is a Good Friend, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sensory Overload, Sherlock Whump, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Whump, can be platonic or romantic you decide, if you like - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Sensory overload for the world's only consulting detective is its own kind of hell. Any and all assistance is welcome. John helps him find something to make it pass a little easier.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 11
Kudos: 388





	Home Has a Certain Smell

**Author's Note:**

> Migraines are a bad time.jpg.

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: “Would it be alright if I borrowed your sweater? It smells like you.”

* * *

One of the first things John learns about Sherlock’s heightened senses is that they’re as much a curse to the man as they are a blessing. The man is incapable of allowing himself to passively observe anything without dissecting it down to its roots, often exploding some horrible negative aspect that ruins it irrevocably. Sherlock is prone to bouts of fitfulness that makes it impossible to sleep in the same flat, not necessarily with the gunshots but clattering of mugs, slamming of books, and everything but the kitchen sink. He’s lost count of times he’s come home to find the flat rearranged into a labyrinth of half-completed experiments and clothes.

The man never stops moving and when he does it’s positively unsettling.

It started with Sherlock burrowing into his dressing gown in the small space between his bed and the wall, refusing to move or eat until days later. John never left the flat, ordering takeout and keeping everyone else—except for Mrs. Hudson—away. He brought it up after a case, concerned about whether or not it had something to do with him.

“I have migraines,” Sherlock sniffed, “inconvenient but a natural side effect of my…condition.”

“Condition,” John muttered under his breath, nudging the small plate of food to Sherlock’s elbow. If he put them close enough when Sherlock was in the middle of his deductive rants, the man would eat without pausing to think about it. “What can I do to help?”

Sherlock paused, giving him a once over with that incredibly penetrative gaze. “…help?”

“Yeah, when you’re like that, how can I make it easier?”

“I…cannot handle levels of high sensory input during my migraines,” Sherlock says slowly, “including smell, sound, and light.”

“Alright. So lights off or low, no super fragrant take-out, no TV. Got it.”

“…thank you, John.”

“‘Course.”

It’s easy to make the changes, plugging in a pair of earphones to watch whatever he needs to, restricting the food to blander things like pasta or sandwiches, and keeping the lights off, using the street lights from outside or the glow of his mobile to see. Sherlock starts moving from the safety of his bedroom to their living room, curling up in his chair, on the couch, or sometimes tucked into the corner by the bookshelf. He keeps his nose buried in his dressing-gown most times, probably putting the most buffers he can between his nose and the rest of the sensory input.

He explained it one time for a case, how scent is the most likely to be linked inextricably to memory, something very sophisticated about how it works with a brain. John keeps his distance. No good giving him one more to worry about.

Then it happens on a case. Sherlock’s eyes blink too quickly and his shoulders are too tense. John tells Lestrade they’ll have to finish up whatever paperwork they have tomorrow, ushering Sherlock into a cab straight back to Baker Street.

“…too bright,” Sherlock whines into John’s collar, “too bright.”

Shucking off his jacket, not thinking about anything other than getting Sherlock out of the light. He lays the clothing over the black curls, tucking it in between Sherlock’s head and the seats of the cab, feeling the soft brush of his hair against his neck.

“We’re almost home,” he murmurs, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, “we’re almost there.”

The cab driver wisely keeps his voice to a minimum as he collects their fare and wishes them a good day. Sherlock’s grip tightens in the brief walk from the cab to their door, no doubt overwhelmed by the sounds and smells of London. John keeps up the mumbled reassurances, giving him something constant to focus on, as they climb slowly up the stairs, stumbling into their living room and collapsing onto the couch.

“We’re here, now,” John murmurs, “you’re safe.”

Sherlock curls his long arms around the smaller man’s chest, making it clear that John’s not going anywhere for a while. Well, if Sherlock doesn’t want him to leave, he’s not even going to try.

John shifts slightly, rolling onto his back and toeing off his shoes, laying down on the couch. Sherlock may be much taller than him but he’s surprisingly light. John makes a resolution to get him to eat more as he gingerly maneuvers Sherlock to lie more securely on the couch. Sherlock’s curls bury themselves in the crook of his shoulder, close enough that he can feel the light flutter of eyelashes against his skin. A slow breath draws itself against his shoulder. Then another. And another.

Night falls on the flat and neither of them stirs until morning.

From then on, every time Sherlock has a migraine, John lays down on the couch, waiting for the other to curl up on top of him like a cat, burying his hands in the black curls or wrapping around the wiry shoulders. In the space between them, he argued his own case, that human contact produces oxytocin and reduces blood pressure, encouraging Sherlock to seek it out to make it easier for himself. Perhaps now that he’s more closely involved, or perhaps it’s that he dozes off more often, but John thinks they’ve been getting shorter.

Then he’s off visiting Harry and gets a frantic text from Mrs. Hudson saying Sherlock’s having a bad migraine—the worst she’s seen in a while—and locked himself in the flat.

John curses, feeling the pang of being too far away to do anything and the only method of helping something that would add to the pain his friend is experiencing. He spends the evening pacing with his mobile clutched in his hand, the buttons making imprints on his palm, opening the message only to delete it over and over.

It buzzes.

_Sherlock: Would it be alright if I borrowed your sweater? -SH_

John frowns, quickly messaging back: _Of course. Can I ask why?_

He groans. No, the last thing he needs to do is give Sherlock something else to worry about. He can’t imagine how hard it was for the man to text him in the first place, receiving a message compounding that. Before he can overthink it any further, however, the mobile buzzes again.

_Sherlock: It smells like you. -SH_

Oh.

_That’s_ why they’ve been getting shorter, isn’t it? The smell of— _his_ smell is making it easier for Sherlock to get through his migraines. And if he’s being honest, he’s missing Sherlock something awful now.

He’s careful when he opens the door, wary of the days-long migraines Sherlock experienced when he first moved in. Sure enough, curled up on the couch, wrapped in his dressing gown and his chunky cream sweater, is Sherlock, peeking out through the bedraggled curls.

“…you’re back.”

“I’m back,” John repeats, shutting the door very quietly and removing his shoes and coat, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Your sweater doesn’t smell like you anymore,” Sherlock mutters, scrunching his fists in the offending fabric, “not enough, anyway.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m back, then?”

In response, Sherlock lets the sweater slide to the ground, opening his arms and giving John a truly impressive pout.

“Alright, you giant cat, give me a moment.”

Settling his mobile, keys, and everything else that could make noise to the side, John eases his way onto the couch, letting Sherlock wrap himself around him like a koala.

“Stay,” he mumbles into John’s collar.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Smell good.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

“ _My_ John…”

“My Sherlock. Now go to sleep, if you can.”

“Mm. Home.”

“Yes, I’m home. You’re home.”

“No,” Sherlock murmurs, pulling back a bit so he can stare John right in the face, “ _now_ I’m home.”

John’s heart aches pleasantly in his chest. Sherlock’s right, the flat never feels…complete without both of them in it. The room seems to curve about them, nestled on the couch, like the petals of a flower about its center.

“You’re home,” he repeats, slightly breathless, “you’re safe.”

“So are you,” Sherlock slurs, returning to his slump atop John, “we’re home.”

Yes, they are.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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